Madness

Days passed. It had been more than a week since she had Apparated into the hall of her parents’ house. She had been confused and angry and, to the consternation of the house-elf that had found her, completely beside herself with grief. He had snapped his fingers and wrapped her in a thick blanket. “Not to worry, Miss. Moby is here,” he whispered as he fussed over her. His voice had faded into indistinct murmurs as she flitted from consciousness. When she woke up from a particularly vivid nightmare, she was tucked neatly into a bed in a second-floor guest room. The house itself had been shut up after her parents had died. Her grandmother wouldn’t hear of selling it. Instead, it had stood vacant for years.

The house-elf who waited on her now had chosen to live in the uninhabited house when her grandparents’ house had been destroyed. He had elected to remain in the lonely, cobwebbed manor, polishing the silver every Thursday and mopping the once-beautiful parquet floors as if someone actually lived there.

Now, he was adamant that Attica have something to eat.

“Moby has brought Miss some fresh clothes. Is Miss wanting some food?”

Some part of her brain registered the sound of the house-elf’s voice, but she couldn’t seem to find the voice to answer his questions. She wanted to have the strength to talk to him. He had been so polite to her since she had arrived at the house, but she had not said a word to him in reply. She had successfully withdrawn into herself completely.

It’s over, she constantly reminded herself. But why didn’t she feel like it was over? Although she had envisioned it ending very differently from what had actually transpired, she had nonetheless expected to feel relieved upon its conclusion. Now that the war was over, her journey should be over as well. Instead, she felt as though she were still teetering on the edge of her sanity. The nightmares had seemed to quadruple in intensity. The red gaze of Voldemort pinned her into submission, and he whispered the plans of his return to her every time she closed her eyes.

She was thankful for small mercies, however. She hadn’t slept or eaten much since she had returned to her parents’ home, meaning the nightmares had been blessedly few.

She was not making a conscious effort to sulk, but she was lost. It had been much easier to put one foot in front of the other when she had had a purpose for her life. She couldn’t eat, and she didn’t want to sleep. Instead, she sat on the bed in the guest room with her arms locked around her knees, staring blindly at the wall. She was exhausted, but there was something nagging at her subconscious, tenuously pushing into her waking mind. The Dark Lord’s voice was now starting to haunt her waking hours. Weren’t her dreams enough?

Moby had been thrilled when she had given into his prodding earlier that day and agreed to have a lie-down. He had even brought up freshly laundered blankets for her, as well as a plate of toast and the tea tray. She laid down and closed her eyes to appease him, but she did not attempt to sleep. The toast remained untouched. She was concentrating on remaining as still as possible. She thought maybe if she was still enough, the voices would not be able to detect her presence, and they would stop.

~~~

Moby returned a few hours later and found her in exactly the same position he had left her in.

“Miss?” He ventured to address her uncertainly, jolting her from her attempts at silent meditation.

Attica sat up and rubbed her eyes, feigning the motions she would have taken had she just woken up. She looked at him, and what was left of her heart melted at the hope in his eyes as he held the tray of food out for her. “Thank you,” she said quietly, “But I’m not very hungry right now.”

Moby just smiled at her, evidently pleased that she had spoken a complete sentence after a week of almost complete silence. “Moby will make some soup for Miss and bring it up, just in case.”

Attica eyed the being in front of her. He was a fixture of her childhood, someone she remembered always being able to depend on. She recalled asking him to sneak her cookies from the kitchen when her grandparents were occupied in the garden. He had always obliged, and it had felt like a great secret between the two of them, but looking back, Attica strongly suspected that the fiercely loyal Moby had had her grandmother’s permission to comply with her wishes. Nonetheless, she felt an overwhelming tug of affection for the big-eared, wide-eyed figure standing at the foot of her bed.

“Very well, Moby,” she sighed. “And thank you again.” Attica winced at her own voice, which was raspy from disuse.

Moby smiled broadly and nodded. He snapped his fingers and disappeared with a crack.

Attica gently pushed herself to her feet and took a few tentative steps across the wooden floor. Her legs were stiff, and she winced again. She couldn’t allow herself to wallow like that anymore.

She needed to figure out what was amiss with her magic.

~~~

As Attica sat on the last step of the elegant staircase in the foyer, she tried the last of the rudimentary spells she knew offhand. With an almost silent Wingardium Leviosa, she was able to lift the targeted vase effortlessly into the air. With a pang, she thought of Neville. She briefly wondered where he was, and if he was wondering where she was too. She sighed and let the vase float back down to the table across the room and turned her gaze to the wand in her hand.

It was made of light-colored ash and unicorn hair core. The intricate etchings on the grip of the wand were beautiful. Attica had always thought so, from the very first day she had seen it in Ollivander’s. Why it failed her in administering the Killing Curse to Potter was beyond her. Everything seemed to be in working order. Maybe it was weak. She knew of only one way to strengthen it, but that was impossible. The Stone was destroyed, and it was beyond even her ability to recreate.

Wasn’t it?

I am coming back, a voice hissed softly. Attica jumped as the voice pulled her out of her reverie. The voice chuckled darkly, and she shivered.

It spoke again, louder this time. I know of your deceit, Attica, and I am coming back. Remember thisss. Cold fear rippled through her as Voldemort’s disembodied voice tapered off in a hiss. Fragmented visions of the Dark Lord walking toward her, surrounded by darkness, flooded unbidden into her mind. She pulled her legs to her chest and locked her arms around them.

“No,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried to drown out the apparitions and the voice. The cold laughter that followed and faded into nothingness broke every ounce of strength she had left.

There were only two explanations for what was happening to her. The first was that Voldemort was coming back. Merlin knew how he did it the first time. He could probably do it again if he was so inclined. But then again, he had been so arrogant in his abilities this time that he may not have considered his failure a possibility.

But if he wasn’t really coming back, if she was only hallucinating…

Attica’s eyes flew open as she tried to stop the thought. No. It couldn’t be true. If it was, that meant that she was mad and she just could not face that. She had seen madness. Bellatrix was mad. Voldemort was mad. She had been on several heartbreaking trips to St. Mungo’s to visit Alice and Frank Longbottom. She had gone only to comfort Neville, but had been deeply pained herself to see them that way.

Attica could be called cold. Clinical, even, but she was not mad.

Attica tried to stifle a sob, but it came anyway. She wept for the first time in years and she choked on the onslaught of her tears. She clutched at her head and entangled her fingers in her riotous curls, as if she could remove whatever insanity had overcome her with the sheer force of her hands.

She did not even notice when the wards protecting her home were broken.